


There Are No Children Left Untouched

by hydreig0n



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Drabble, Gen, POV Outsider, but 5+2, i kind of forgot reborn and the arcobaleno whoops, the mafia takes good things and breaks them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:27:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydreig0n/pseuds/hydreig0n
Summary: The Decimo is going to changeeverything.(The Mafia breaks some; others, it builds.)





	There Are No Children Left Untouched

**Author's Note:**

> written three years ago!! hhaha don’t expect much please

I.

Sawada Tsunayoshi.

When you first hear the name, it’s casually thrown around in a meaningless conversation, set aside as unimportant—just another nobody among nobodies for the Mafia. Heir to the Vongola? Yeah, right. Him and everyone else.

Of course you’ve been briefed on him before: ordinary appearance, still a kid, son of some high up Mafia guy, the usual. The only thing that stands out even _remotely_ about him is that he wields Sky flames. Then again, _Vongola_ _Decimo_ , so it’s not very shocking.

It’s when you’re on a mission (simple. It was supposed to be a simple mission. What could possibly go so wrong on a scouting mission?) that you realize there may have been more to him than you first anticipated.

And suddenly they’re there. The Vongola Decimo and his legendary guardians,  _ are literally right in front of you and oh  _ **_shit_ ** . (Well, his guardians are right in front of you—he’s more or less completely surrounded by their makeshift protective circle and  _ really?  _ He’s not the one that needs protecting.)

The battle’s only been going for a few minutes but you still fall back gratefully when your own backup surges forward. All of those men were specifically trained for fighting, but the fight that comes next is one of the most one-sided battles you’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

That doesn’t change the fact that when you see him for the first time… there’s something intriguing about him. Maybe it’s the way he gazes out at the fight your having and seems to curl into himself and  _ Wow,  _ you think dazedly, still woozy from the head wound you’ve received,  _ he looks so young.  _ Much younger than you when you first became involved in the underground.

Or maybe, you realize (but by then it’s far, far too late), it was the spark in his eyes that screamed  _ change. _

(Later, you’ll learn that those weren’t sparks—they were _flames._ That boy, that goddamn _monster_ , has a raging inferno in his eyes. And you should know that nothing comes in the path of an inferno without getting incinerated.)

Eventually you’re carted off the field and when you wake up again it’s to whispers of the Vongola Primo’s supposed return.

You smirk, but it feels shaky even to you; the Primo couldn’t hold a candle to what’s coming.

  
  


II.

Sawada Tsunayoshi.

The second time you meet him is slightly more personal than the first, but the situation is just as deadly. You’re holding a gun to one of his men, asking him to reveal whatever you needed at the time—your actual mission pales in comparison to what went down there, so it’s not really your fault you can’t remember.

So imagine it: you see yourself there, holding a gun to a (living, breathing) person’s head with adrenaline and a wild thrill rushing through your veins (because no one who joins the Mafia is completely normal in that sense) when a young boy turns to look at you.

The reason it’s so jarring is not because of his age (not  _ completely- _ ) but because the same eyes you see in the mirror every morning look back at you. 

The same except Sawada’s (his name that’s his name) are so much  _ more _ . It knocks the breath out of your lungs and then you’re keenly aware of how irrelevant you are; unlike this boy in front of you, you could disappear tomorrow and nothing would change. (Change? Isn’t that a grand word?) But now you’re also aware of the sweat beading on the brow of the man you’re holding at gunpoint, you’re aware of people filling in around the Vongola Decimo, you’re aware of your own team retreating and most of all… 

You’re aware of the strength of the boy in front of you. Everything is background noise compared to his brilliance, he  _ glows  _ in front of you and you wonder if this is what it feels like to be in the presence of a god.

You feel how his guardians surround him and how he talks to them, how he talks to the world, how his skill exceeds yours, how he loves, how he hates and—

You lower your gun, sending the man tumbling forward (it’s all too much, too  _ much, too much) _ , turn on your heel and walk out. No one stops you. Your gun makes a clattering noise when you drop it and then you walk away. One step at a time, you  _ leave. _

You walk for so long you eventually end up at your base and people question you and you  _ talk.  _ Tales of a dangerous child with wide brown eyes grace your lips and they wonder how you survived. You wonder, too. 

Rumours are spreading again with a renewed vigor and the title Vongola Primo is slowly replaced with Vongola Decimo.

  
  


III. 

Sawada Tsunayoshi.

It makes the third you’ve seen him when you shake his hand at a black market, sealing a deal that is bigger than the both of (or maybe only you- he is afterall-) you.

You make eye contact when you shake his hand—like any Mafia member worth his existence—and it’s relatively easy to keep your composure. Ever since that day, you’ve been different; your training’s been more intense (specifically for torture and interrogation situations). But no matter how much you train, the perpetual shake of your gun hand never ceases. Not since that day.

That particular psychological scar is worse than the one that crosses your entire forehead and part of your left eye. (And it reminds you of the thoughts you gave to a dying child that day.)

He’s a little different from last time you’ve met him—his expression a bit more hardened and his words are a bit sharper, wary now. It doesn’t change the fact that when you’re forced to shake his hand with your shaking one, his grip tightens momentarily before releasing you. It should’ve felt suffocating, like getting caught in a trap—but instead it’s comforting, almost like an apology. 

His eyes reveal nothing. (You  _ hopewonder _ if he remembers you…)

Briefcases are handed over, cordial words are exchanged; and then you and him are both going your separate ways. On the drive back all you can feel is the all-consuming dread pooling in your stomach, threatening to bubble up and suffocate you.

(Your boss shouldn’t have done that.)

  
  


IV.

Sawada Tsunayoshi. 

The fourth meeting terrifies you. You’re walking down the street, bag of takeout in hand and earbuds plugged in blasting full volume. You’re still acutely aware of  _ everything  _ going around you (that kind of paranoia lingers in your craft) but it’s overall a pretty casual evening for you.

A flash of brown catches your attention and your instincts immediately scream danger. You quickly step to the side—hoping your moves weren’t to jerky—and nearly press yourself to a shop lining the sidewalk.

_ He  _ walks past you, surrounded by who you can only assume are his (wait stop-  _ I’m not ready to see yet- _ ) friends. You sense the presence of some of his guardians but that’s not why you’re suddenly terrified all over again. 

The fact that this boy _ man _ boy who is part of the mafia can still love  _ scares  _ you. Because you aren’t like that—no, you don’t know  _ anyone  _ like that. Everyone you know is damaged in some way and the Mafia is all you have left— but Sawada Tsunayoshi  _ loves  _ people. You see it in the way he smiles and in the way your smiles are plastic and scream fakeness compared to his.

There’s a gun in your pocket. They don’t know you’re there. You could end it once and for all.

The word ‘mother’ come out of his lips and you force yourself to swallow the bile that rises up in your throat. (You’re fine, everything is fine.  _ Nonothingisokayhelp-) _

You stay standing there long after they’ve walked away. Someone asks if you’re okay. You walk home through sheer muscle memory and pack your bags, scrapping your fake I.D and leaving the next morning. You make a call on a disposable phone and move into the barracks of your famiglia.

You’ll pretend that you never felt that pang of longing with the expertise of someone who’s already had everything ripped away from them. 

(A storm is brewing. A storm of fire.)

  
  


[+I.]

Sawada Tsunayoshi.

Things have started happening. The plan has been put into motion and like an out of control train there’s no stopping it; it crushes everyone in its wake, leaving only death and sorrow behind.

You have been sent to more exchanges, more meetings with increasingly more dangerous individuals. The Mafia is starting to see more alien to you; light being shed on the darkness that you could ignore previously. You supposed it came with the promotion. (A promotion you regret more and more as time passes. After all, what did you do to get there?)

The first move was made nearly two weeks ago. Your Famiglia (has no name—just an over glorified company that saw the black market as an opportunity and took it. Too far.) has been steadily gaining information about the current leader’s guardians. See, the talk right now is the Vongola Decimo. The most anyone picks up about his guardians are a few tidbits; but sprinkle in a few witnesses and you’ve got a lead.

It took over a year, but now you have profiles of them—weaknesses, strengths, fighting styles—detailed down to what they like to eat and when said food is consumed. (The only blank space is the Decimo himself.  _ Don’t overlook him _ , something tells you. He’s overlooked anyway.) You and your group are not well known, but there’s a reason spies aren’t.

Thus, two weeks ago, Cloud Guardian Hibari Kyouya of the Vongola went missing. It’s been kept under wraps as successfully as can be considering one of the strongest guardians in the world just went missing, but to say the Vongola went on an outrage is an understatement.

Signs of the previously well-known but relatively anonymous famiglia have been appearing everywhere—agents tailing people after deals; Vongola individuals skulking around areas that  _ should _ have been no threat to the strongest in the Underworld. People are talking. It’s putting your boss on edge and the mission’s been bumped up by a month.

However, the information holds strong and currently Rain Guardian Yamamoto Takeshi and Mist Guardians Dokuro Chrome/Rokudo Mukuro are also in captivity. 

Another week shows Sasagawa Ryohei and his non-mafia sister gone from the Vongola’s protective arms. Many others (so many, god this boy has _so_ _many_ allies) come soon after, but at that point you stop keeping track. There’s no point in remembering worthless names. 

(You suppose every name will become worthless after what you’re about to witness. Every name but  _ His. _ )

It’s the final week of holding more hostages than you can keep track of, when your boss finally snaps. You’re giving him a status report when the lights flicker out. Everything is momentarily plunged into a perfect tenseness; but then the lights flicker back on and it’s as if nothing’s happened. 

A piercing wail of utter despair shatters that image. You pull your gun out so fast you barely miss shooting your boss straight through the head. (Little had you known, it would have been a mercy.) 

He’s on his knees, shaking and writhing and mumbling words like ‘ _ fire, death, Vindince, defiance, firefire.  _ **_NO—_ ** _ argh- _ **_StoP.’_ ** Crazed giggles bubbled up from his throat, the insane, disjointed kind that make shivers travel up your spine. You watch the thin string of sanity snap in him. You only think to call for Sun-flames five hours later. It’s too late. (The Vindince are only one of many who won’t get to witness what comes next.)

Belatedly, you realize that  _ you’re _ next in line. There is no one left but you to take control of the operation. (You could have stopped it there, you could’ve but you  _ didn’t _ -)

You sheath your gun. Your hand still shakes, but there’s an odd sort of resolve burning in you as you sit at the chair that’s still warm from a man who died seconds ago. This killed him, but who said you couldn’t be better? 

(The title got to your head.  _ Boss.  _ What a disgusting word.)

The final steps of the plan falls into place.

(What a disgusting  _ world _ .)

  
  
  


V .

Sawada Tsunayoshi. 

Has not been seen in over three months. Not for business trade, not for the maintain of alliances. Nothing. (It unnerves you.) Vongola activity has plummeted. New gangs are moving into Italy, trying to pick up the broken pieces of the reign of the Vongola famiglia. Trying to make them theirs. (It unnerves you.) Your company, on the other hand, is thriving. You’re building a name for yourself. (It  _ unnerves  _ you.)

But there’s still the Vongola Decimo problem you need to take care of before you celebrate your victories. He should arrive any day. But he hasn’t, not yet. (You  _ need-must-want  _ to see him.)

A locker door screeches open, and with a nod you tell your guards to wait outside. It creaks shut behind you seconds later. A cacaphony of muffled yells breaks out soon as you step into the light.

There are cells at the back—heavily chained and covered in glowing runes—and in those cells lay seven people. It’s only a fraction of the captives you have in your hellish ‘storage buildings’, but these are the most important. The most dangerous. (But not  _ the  _ most dangerous.)

  
  


You drag a chair up and sit in front of the closest cell (one of the few you can actually  _ talk to,  _ without risking an escape act). A boy with radioactive green hair scowls at you with so much hatred in his gaze that a lesser person would probably cringe away. You gaze stonily ahead anyway. You ask him if he’s ready to talk. He tells you to ‘go to hell’. 

A quiet but steadily increasing thumping sound reaches your ears and fills the silence. No one speaks, not even the boy utters a word. 

You roll away just in time from the jarring explosion that practically rocks the whole building on its foundation. Shreds of scrap metal fly past you like smouldering daggers, and you realize  _ fire  _ too late. A pressure (an ethereal  _ energy that burnshurtsburns _ ) slams into you and brings you to your knees. It pulses through the air like the world itself come alive, and wraps around your heart and  _ squeezes. _

A wheezing breath forces it’s way past your lips. The lights went out in the explosion and it’s almost completely dark, the billows of black smoke not helping much, so it’s hard to find your way around. You regret the lack of gun in your pocket ( _ or do you?) _ . You crumple to your knees again in hacking coughs. 

Footsteps echo around you, and sudden  _ terror- terror like before  _ seizes you. The footsteps are small and casual, like the steps of someone who fears nothing or has nothing left to lose. Three tiny glows become visible in the distance. They get brighter with every step. 

Another coughing fit knocks the breath out of you and makes your vision swim with inky darkness. When you look up,  _ he  _ stands there. Like an ancient spirit of war unchained, his fists and forehead coated with sleek fire that makes your blood curdle and body tremble. 

His eyes burn through you, gleam with the orange glow of a king. You make a strangled sound and scramble backwards, throwing away your pride. You need to get  _ awayaway _ **_away_ ** and desperation makes you sloppy. As soon as your foot hits a gun (you don’t make the connections fast enough, don’t notice the dark grin disappear behind you) you grab it and point it at him. 

Decimo doesn’t stop walking. Both your hands shake for more than just psychological reasons. 

Before you even realize what’s happened, your back hits a wall. All you can see is _bright bright bright burning_ _orange death_ and his steadily approaching footsteps. A bead of sweat rolls into your eye, and for a moment you understand how your boss felt. 

The Decimo crouches in front of you and smiles a smile that promises a slow and painful death. His pearly white teeth glint, the perfect imitation of a predator stalking its prey. 

(I won’t hurt you if you cooperate, _he_ _says._ Lie, lie, lie, _you think._ If demons run when a good man goes to war, they kneel when a child does. Respect for the king.) 

A smouldering hand turns the gun to dust. He’s so close now, you can  _ feel  _ his breath on your face. Blisters grace your skin from the heat of his forehead. Sky flames are supposed to be like no other, and it’s true. They feel like stars exploding near you. Overwhelming and bright and filled with rage. 

(His Sky flames make you want to reach out and let them scorch you. Make you want to perish for a single touch of them.)

You know what he wants. He wants his family. The family you took from him. 

Some used to yell his name, to taunt the sleeping god inside him; but now they whisper it, huddled up and living on borrowed time. They know they can’t afford any more than whispers. Speak too loud and he will come. He will come and ask them to pay for their sins. (Maybe if you had known about these people, things could have played out differently. You doubt it.) 

You think about everything you’ve done up to this point; every thing that’s amounted to nothing. You’ll still be cursed to live in His shadow. How irrelevant your goals seem now. 

You close your eyes (because his are  _ too burning _ ) because you are going to die. Just like the others that tried to ursurp gods. 

Sawada Tsunayoshi whispers about how he’s going to change the world. 

(And around you, the world burns.) 

  
  


[+II.]

You should have remembered—there are no children in the mafia. 

**Author's Note:**

> completely unedited but I will come back and fix it, hopefully


End file.
